


if you're lost (i'll be your light)

by thedarknesswithin (babylxxrry)



Series: all that glitters is not gold [6]
Category: Pentatonix, Superfruit
Genre: Angst, Character Study, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, LMAO, LMAO IS IT GETS WORSE BEFORE IT GETS BETTER REALLY A TAG OMG, M/M, NO ONE KNOWS, also no one knows became NO ONE KNOWS which i think fits, does it mean this is the worst? or does it mean there's still more?, lmao since when is that not a tag, maybe? - Freeform, not even me, this is the most painful of the bunch i think, you can read that as you please
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2017-03-19
Packaged: 2018-10-07 15:31:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10363701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babylxxrry/pseuds/thedarknesswithin
Summary: mitch is home but he isn't Home.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xxCat1989xx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxCat1989xx/gifts).



> looooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooool if only you could have seen my spirals into madness trying to write this  
> it's my favorite and probably the last huge angst  
> *she said of i5 and i4 and yet*  
> but it's 2am and i'm basically dead what if i just posted this now lmao  
> lmao i don't even know anymore have fun
> 
> for cat as always you're lovely and i made your Iceland (now i0) into a monster sorry babe forgive me ily  
> OMG RIGHT THIS IS THE LONGEST OF THEM ALL AT 2.2K!!!!!!!!!
> 
>  
> 
> EDIT 3.19.17: small grammatical fixes and expanded ending :P sorry if u get an update available notif D: it's just me editing my 2am ramblings so it's now 2.4k lmao

Mitch has to blink a few times when he wakes up. The lights are all on and there are scraps of paper surrounding him. He sits up and checks the time on his phone. It’s two in the morning. His palm hurts a little, and he loosens his fist to reveal harsh fingernail crescents marking his skin, surrounding the piece of paper he’d balled up earlier. He unfolds it carefully, smoothing it out onto the duvet. He doesn’t remember writing it, but it’s definitely his handwriting, albeit the rushed, loopy version of it.

_Sunshine, it’s hard being home but not Home. You’re my Home._

He blinks at the words for a minute, sleep-sluggish brain trying to process his own scrawl.

“Oh.”

He doesn’t mean to say it out loud, but he does. He looks up for a moment, looking back down at his lap when he sees the way Scott has his mirror angled so that he can see himself in bed.

Mitch gets up, walks over to the mirror.

He barely recognizes his reflection, tension buzzing just under his skin, pushing tiredly like it’s still trying to get out but has ultimately resigned itself to whatever fate should become of it. He looks terrible. He’s pale, but there are dark purple moons under his eyes and his eyes themselves are so, so tired. They’re dull and glassy, haze misting his sight just a little. His skin feels too small, drawn tight over cheekbones and collarbones and ribs and hips. He needs to sleep, needs to eat, but he can’t do either, really. He’s barely been drinking enough water to skim the line of dehydration, but in all honesty, he has no appetite and no motivation to sleep.

It’s kind of shocking and not at the same time when he thinks about how much it affects him when Scott’s not around. This is the worst time, by far, but they’ve been close for so long that when they’re not, it’s like his body knows something’s wrong. It’s usually little things- forgetting a meal or losing a few hours of sleep, but right now, he doesn’t think he’s had two full meals for the two days he’s been home, and he knows for sure he hasn’t gotten a total of more than five hours for the two nights.

Scott will be home in something like a day or so, though, and that makes Mitch just a little less numb.

He looks down at the paper, held gently between two fingers. It’ll go in his journal.

He makes a silent trip down the dark hall to his own room, stepping over the creaky board by his nightstand and grabbing his journal and a pen.

It falls open to one of his most-visited pages- a poem of sorts he’d written sometime on tour. It was a little bit of a reminiscing moment somewhere between two shows when they were on the bus and it was a quiet, dim afternoon. Everyone had been absorbed in themselves that day, working on their own things and thumbing silently through social media. Mitch had been watching Scott working on an arrangement for something or other, and words had sprung to mind almost faster than he could get them down.

 

_i can see the tick marks_

_on the road_

_disappearing under the_

_bus_

_and_

_the trees and the rocks and_

_the sky_

_rushing by_

_in a blur of green_

_and greybrownred_

_and_

_blue_

_\- but_

_all i can hear and see and focus on_

_is your voice_

_four rows back_

_and across the aisle_

_all i can pay attention to_

_is how you laugh and_

_talk_

_and how_

_you're somehow both the quietest and_

_the loudest_

_person i've ever encountered_

_and_

_it's amazing how_

_when we make eye contact_

_across the room_

_i feel_

_like all time_

_freezes_

_in its tracks_

_to simply sit_

_and admire_

_how soft_

_and sweet_

_your eyes are_

_before a friend_

_draws your attention_

_away_

_and_

_time_

_starts_

_again_

_with a jolt_

_and i settle_

_back into the seat_

_back into the rhythmic_

_thrumming of the bus engine_

_watching the tick marks_

_disappear under the_

_bus_

_but there is_

_something warm inside my_

_heart_

_that wasn't there before_

_and_

_every time we make eye contact_

_across the room_

_or_

_through a crowd_

_it grows a little_

_it gets a little warmer_

_it bubbles up a little higher_

_and_

_i don't know_

_when it will_

_or if it ever will_

_spill over_

_but_

_all i know_

_is that_

_whatever it is_

_it bubbles_

_softly_

_sweetly_

_gently_

_in time with_

_the tick_

_marks_

_disappearing_

_under_

_the_

_bus_

Mitch distinctly remembers the moment he was thinking about when he wrote the poem. It’d been a school trip back when they were maybe fifteen or sixteen. They’d had assigned “seat buddies” which was stupid because no reasonable teacher would do that to a teenager, but Scott had been assigned to someone that wasn’t Mitch and Mitch’s ended up not showing, so Mitch had been alone, content (at least at that point) to watch his best friend talk to his other friends. Scott hadn’t forgotten about Mitch, not by a long shot, judging by the way he bounded to Mitch’s side the moment they arrived. That first moment, though, of being apart and stealing secret glances was about to set the stage for almost the entirety of the next decade, and young, hopeful baby Mitch didn’t even know it.

He places the little piece of paper in between those two pages and closes the journal, leaving it on Scott’s bed. His phone is still and silent, and he’s not particularly surprised. Not many of his friends are up and about at two in the morning. It’s about ten in Iceland, but Scott shouldn’t be up for another few hours, given that he was probably tipsy and didn’t sleep until past four.

Mitch needs to go back to sleep, he knows, if he wants to push the jetlag off and actually restart a normal sleep schedule. He doesn’t want to, though. He doesn’t want to close his eyes again because he knows he won’t be able to fall asleep unless the Scott audio is playing. He knows he’ll just dream of Scott again. He’ll just see Scott smiling, laughing, singing, teasing, flirting, dancing in his dreams and he doesn’t want to do that to himself right now. He just needs to get through today. Scott will be home tomorrow afternoon. He’ll bring light back to the house, a bright ray of sun to cut through the dark mess that constitutes Mitch’s emotions right now.

Mitch doesn’t know why he decides to go outside, turning the lights in the house off as he goes. He makes his way out to their balcony. It’s chilly for California, and he’s just wearing Scott’s sweatshirt over boxers. The concrete is cold against his bare feet, and he shivers a little, ignoring it. It’s warmer here than it is in Iceland, anyways.

He looks up at the stars. They’re so much dimmer here, with all the lights of the city and cars taking away from their gleam, and it doesn’t really even hurt anymore when he realizes he’s talking about himself. It should hurt, but it doesn’t. It’s become normal, that little throbbing ache of his heart and mind that reminds him that he’s nothing special, not even as bright as the dimmest star.

He doesn’t shine as much here. He doesn’t glow like he does when he’s with Scott. Everything around them, the fans, the press, their friends, even their families are the lights. They pull and pull and pull at him, demanding attention here and there and then and now and it’s exhausting. It’s exhausting even though he loves the fans, loves his friends, loves his family. It’s exhausting and Mitch is so, so tired.

When Scott’s next to him, though, it’s not so bad. Scott makes him stronger, makes him braver. Scott calms him down and keeps him afloat.

Mitch doesn’t realize he’s shivering again until he looks down at the city, away from the stars. Suddenly, he’s acutely aware of how cold it is, and he turns to go back into the house when he pauses.

The stars he’s seeing now are the brightest of the bunch, the ones who burn bright enough to cut through the city lights and the smog. He remembers the way he and Scott were pointing out the brightest stars back in Iceland, and he wonders if some of them are the same that he’s seeing now. Scott’s like one of those. He’s bright enough, strong enough, brave enough to withstand all of the bullshit, the calls for attention. Mitch wishes _he_ were brighter. Stronger. Braver.

 _Less pathetic,_ his traitorous brain fills in. _Maybe Scott would give you the time of day if you were worth it. Less of a nobody. Less of a mess._

He’s not, though, so he shouldn’t pretend to be.

He goes back inside, locking the sliding door behind him.

A few silent steps takes him back to Scott’s room, and he turns on the single bedside lamp, going to sit on the bed again, pulling the duvet up and around his shoulders.  He grabs the house cleaning plan from the nightstand, adding a few more details he didn’t manage to get down yesterday.

It’s done pretty soon (at least, his phone says 3:22am)  but instead of starting the clean, he opens his journal again, making a list of the points he and Scott need to talk about. He’s pretty sure they won’t get to most, if any of them, but he’s trying to distract himself more than anything.

It doesn’t last long, but enough to tide him over to 4:00am. He sighs, glancing over at his phone. He wants to text Scott, but Scott hasn’t texted him yet.

Me, 4:00am: _morning._

Scott doesn’t reply, not that Mitch was expecting him to. He’s probably still asleep, or if anything, ignoring Mitch.

_It doesn’t hurt._

It does, though.

Mitch flips his journal back open to the page with the wrinkled piece of paper, staring down at the words.

_Sunshine._

Scott really is his sunshine. He’s the one that brightens every part of Mitch’s day, but if Mitch gets too close like he always has been and always will be, he’ll be burned. It’s not new, but it still hurts.

_home but not Home._

Home is a weird concept. When he was little, it was his house, the one place he knew he’d be safe from the world. His home protected him and was his safe place. He always went home when he was upset or scared. Home now is still that, but it’s not a place. It’s a person. He runs Home whenever he’s anxious or needs a hug or needs somewhere to cry.

Scott is Home.

Home is Scott.

_You’re my Home._

It’s true.

Mitch doesn’t know why he’s tearing up. This isn’t new to him, but it’s like the exhaustion and the stress and the old wounds and missing Scott is all crashing down around him, slamming him into the ground with dizzying strength and Mitch starts shaking, tears running down his face again. He presses his hands to his mouth, biting down on his palm subconsciously to try and curb the trembling. He lies down, pulling Scott’s pillow over his face.

He misses Scott so much and he’s so, so tired. He’s so tired and he wants to stop crying but he _can’t._ He can’t stop crying, can’t stop the way his head hurts so much and his chest hurts too and his stomach hurts and _fuck, everything hurts._ Everything hurt so much that he can’t even tell what’s what anymore, just feels everything aching, longing for sunshine and longing for something, someone to pull him up, to tell him it’s okay and that he’s loved, but there’s no one to do that. He’s alone and he’s hurting and one moment he’s sobbing and shaking and the next he’s asleep.

He won’t think about it until later, but this is the first time he’s fallen asleep without Scott’s voice in his ears. It’s only because he’s so deathly tired that he can, and it’s not even a restful sleep. It’s too cold and Mitch feels too small and he’s so, so tired. Somehow, he’s still crying, even half dead and lolling in and out of consciousness.

Mitch drifts between sunshine and darkness and something in between and all he knows is that he’s too cold and he’s floating and he’s spinning and flipping and flying and falling and he just wants something to hold him down, to stop the way he’s loose in a raging sea, at the mercy of the waves and wind. He doesn’t know how long he’s thrown around like a ragdoll abandoned by its owner before the room shifts, just a little, and something calms down inside him. His mind eases a little and he breathes easier, chest loosening just a bit. After a moment, he’s not cold anymore. He’s warm, and there’s a lovely, blessed weight pinning him down into the bed and he feels like he’s safe, _finally._ He thinks he’s probably dreaming but he could swear there was a little _sleep, darling_ whispered into the room. He sighs and lets himself slip into pure, welcoming darkness, finally letting go of everything he’s been thinking and worrying about.

The next time he wakes up, he doesn’t know what time it is. He’s still warm, though, and there are soft breaths brushing over his cheek in time with his own.

“Good morning, princess.” There’s a whisper from behind him, close to his ear.

Mitch startles a little, flipping over clumsily in what he realizes is Scott’s hold.

It doesn’t register for a moment.

He sees that it’s Scott but he can’t think for a moment.

_Sunshine._

_Home._

_Finally._

He can’t help the way he breaks down, clutching Scott for dear life and sobbing like there’s nothing he can do about it, which there isn’t. Scott just holds him, crushing him to his chest and pressing kisses to the top of his head and Mitch can only cry more, because his sunshine is here and it’s not dark anymore. The dark has gone to cower in the far corners of the room, at least for now, and Mitch can’t help the way his chest heaves with the sheer relief of just being around Scott again, can’t help the way he buries his face in Scott’s chest and just breathes, finally full, deep breaths that actually reach his lungs.

_Sunshine._

_Bright._

_Strong._

_Brave._

_Sunshine._

_Sunshine._

_Sunshine._

_Home._

Mitch is finally Home.

 

 

(for now.)

 

 

 

 

 

-fin.

**Author's Note:**

> that was probably the last of me being 
> 
> "JOCE the sadist angst monster"  
> -Jas 2k17
> 
> but who knows lmao  
> fyi that poem is mine and i wrote it sometime last year actually just about a year ago i think???
> 
> leave a comment or a kudos if you're crying bc me too buddy me too


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